


Pen to Paper

by Quilly



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Awake the Snake (Good Omens), Fluff, GO Love Day, Love Letters, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29369367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Crowley is awoken by something poking him in the face.For the GO Love Day event!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	Pen to Paper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BardofEryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardofEryn/gifts).



> What ho! This is for BardofEryn, who was partnered up with me for the GO Love Day event! Hope you like it, because it is sappy and soft as anything with a touch of insecurity to set it off :P They asked for Crowley and Aziraphale exchanging love letters during lockdown and while this isn't exactly on target, it's...something, anyway.

Crowley’s slumber was interrupted by a very insistent poke to his face.

To a champion napper such as himself, a simple poke to the face breaking his streak was an insult. A travesty. A downright inconceivable turn of idiocy. A…a very bad and stupid thing. Crowley’s eyes fluttered and he mumbled and he rolled over, with the intent to forget about it, and felt something papery crunch underneath him. Several papery somethings, actually.

He rolled back the other way, and more papery somethings. This was getting out of hand, Crowley thought, and reached out a hand to blindly slap around until the obstruction was removed. What his hand felt was that his entire bed—his _entire_ bed—was covered in paper squares. Rectangles. Envelopes! Crowley groaned. Either this was his plants’ way of unionizing and making their demands known, or some other mischief was afoot. Hell wasn’t an entire write-off, always present in the very dim back of Crowley’s mind since the Apocawon’t.

He thought briefly about setting the bed on fire to be rid of it all.

Then he grimaced, cracked open one eye, and held up an envelope to his face.

The scent of sugar reached him immediately, and that beloved curl of divinity that suffused everything Aziraphale touched and treasured, and more than that it was Aziraphale’s neat copperplate script that informed him not only was this envelope from Aziraphale, but that it was addressed to Crowley himself. He opened his other eye, looking at the other envelopes around him, and saw that they were all more or less the same thing—letters from Aziraphale, dozens and dozens of them.

Crowley checked his phone. No missed calls of any importance (read as: from Aziraphale), and it was a full five months since his last bleary news-checking and subsequent dismissal of the waking world. Quite a bit of time since the last he’d talked to Aziraphale, actually. He didn’t recall if there had been letters on his bed at that time, but it had been a very brief check-in with reality (still a plague? People still refusing to acknowledge it? Great. Back to bed, thanks). But they were here now, and Crowley was waking up a little bit now that he had something stimulating to occupy himself with.

The letters weren’t dated and it hadn’t been so long that Crowley could gauge the age of any one letter above the others, so he picked the one in his hand as the first, broke the seal on the back (wax seal, green wax seal, what a fussy old sod), and withdrew the letter.

 _My Dearest Crowley,_ the letter began, and Crowley had to immediately put the letter down to wait for his ears to stop ringing. Well. That was certainly forward of him. He cleared his throat, scrubbed a hand over his face, then sat up in bed. He picked the letter back up and continued reading.

_It has been so long since I’ve looked on you, my darling one, and even with such a short separation as this has been in all our years, your absence is intolerable. Alas, I am the poorer for your lack, perishing for want of your smile, withering without the glow of your hair in the sun. Incidentally, I have done much research into the effect a pair of fine eyes in a pretty face, and my conclusion is that I must conduct further observations, which shall have to be put off until such time as I am able to engage with the subject of my attentions once more. Indeed, there can be no equal, with such a pair of eyes and such a face as yours._

_Thinking of you, as I hope perhaps you think of me, Aziraphale_

Crowley’s face burned. Was this a joke? Had Aziraphale finally cracked? With haste he tore into another letter. This had to be a joke.

_My Dearest Crowley,_

_I have observed many times now my own happy state whenever in your company, and these many months alone after the Unpleasant Business are as stark a contrast as ever I can find. Yeast, when put in the proper conditions, causes bread to rise, as I have since become master of employing since this necessary lockdown began. I have felt that somehow I am bread without yeast, which as we both know is actually rather good, but for the purposes of my metaphor, I would implore you to introduce yourself back into my company once it is safe to do so, as I am a puddle of raw, impotent ingredients without you here to lift my spirits and my heart to greater heights of contentment and even joy._

_Thinking of you often, Aziraphale_

Crowley was sure his ears were whistling like a teakettle. He tore through letter after letter, finding similar things in each—sometimes a silly metaphor, sometimes a plaintive bearing of soul, sometimes a very clearly annoyed call for Crowley to write back laced throughout with affection. When all were read, he sat in a pile of torn paper and wax bits and put his head in his hands, not keening but definitely not being very calm about it, either.

So Aziraphale had been sending him love letters for the past…however long. Daily love letters, almost. Soppy, emotional love letters. Love letters that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, though the titular words had never actually been written. Crowley’s head spun. His thoughts swam. His heart did an athletic conga.

A new letter popped into being on his lap.

Crowley ground his teeth. His palms sweated.

_Crowley, my dear, I miss you terribly._

That was the sum and total of the letter this time.

Crowley’s first instinct was to leap into action—to dress himself, to fetch a nice bottle of something drinkable, to maybe buy out a flower shop or something, assuming those were still around. Bad example be damned, Crowley was a demon and was meant to set one, no matter that he was retired. He had his fingers primed and ready to snap before Aziraphale’s words from their phone call and in many of the letters caught up—caution, distance, couldn’t possibly meet now, that would be against the rules—and he groaned, then growled. Nope. Wasn’t going to play this game with him. Aziraphale would have to ask him to come over, or Crowley wouldn’t budge. The thought made him want to go back to sleep, but before he did, he supposed he at least owed Aziraphale a reply.

A rather nice fountain pen from his desk found itself in his hand, and a sheet of passable stationery, and for good measure a lap desk too, and Crowley felt himself ready to go. He put down his pen and began to write.

_Dear Aziraphale,_

No, no, that wouldn’t do. Aziraphale had already set the tone, and the tone was…well, not that. Do-over, immediately.

_My dearest Aziraphale,_

Nope, couldn’t copy him, made it sound insincere. And Crowley had never called anything “dearest” in his entire life. He chewed on his thumbnail, tapped his pen, and with a wince, wrote:

_Angel,_

There, that felt natural. Fond. Could be written off if somehow Crowley had misjudged this entire enterprise and Aziraphale hadn’t meant any of what he said in a romantic context.

_I’ve been asleep. Doesn’t seem like anything out there has changed much since May._

Crowley hesitated. Should he…reciprocate, maybe? A little? Maybe tell Aziraphale some piece of the big hulking growth he had on his impacted demonic soul that leaked softness everywhere any time Aziraphale so much as smiled? Should he play it off and wait to tell him in person? He gritted his jaw.

_I miss you too._

Alright, that was plenty emotionally bare enough. He resisted the urge to cross it out and maybe throw the whole endeavor away, weathering his own embarrassment until it died down enough to get another sentence out.

_Thanks for the letters._

Ugh. But maybe, if he followed up with—

_We should get you a mobile, texting is much faster than letters. Less clutter. But letters are nice too sometimes._

What was he even saying? He was blowing it, blowing it—he had to wrap this up fast, just say one more thing and then send it back—

_View’s been pretty dull from where I sit. Would be nice to commiserate about it over a nice stiff drink. Might go back to sleep in a bit, might not. Don’t really have much to stay awake for in my flat._

There, some hinting and double-talk that would make the angel proud. Plenty to read into if he wanted, and just little enough to pass off as a harmless comment if not. Crowley was brilliant, if he said so himself. Now to close.

_Love,_

Crowley full-body shuddered and twitched but didn’t cross it out.

_Crowley._

There. That was done.

His lap desk found itself equipped with a wax-sealing kit, and Crowley shrugged and used green, himself, since Aziraphale had and it wasn’t a color either of them had ever claimed before. Seemed neutral enough. His old signet ring found itself transported from its storage in the ether to Crowley’s hand, and he sealed it with practiced ease before he could second-guess himself. Then he vanished the whole setup, and with a well-placed miracle, sent the letter to the bookshop, with all luck having it drop right on Aziraphale’s head, as intended.

He passed the time by gathering up the letters and found a few more on the floor, which he stacked on top of the opened ones and resolved to savor them and stretch them out, if he had trouble staying awake while waiting for Aziraphale’s reply. This was…a bit fun, wasn’t it? Almost like a game. A very high-stakes game where Crowley was unsure exactly of the rules, but a game nonetheless. He flounced around his flat and did things like tend to his plants and glare at the grout and re-organize his media collections, starting with the vinyls. He had graduated to the cassette tapes when there was a pop and another envelope dropped into his lap, still warm from either the bookshop or its occupant, Crowley hardly dared to imagine which.

 _My dearest Crowley_ , and how that still thrilled! But don’t get too excited, Crowley told himself sternly, read the rest first.

_I am ever so pleased to hear from you at last, and while not surprised, as you did say you would be sleeping when last we spoke, I am shocked that it went on for so long. But, then, you are a champion at sloth, and no doubt of all of the deadly sins you could indulge, sloth is surely the least objectionable, except when it parts us._

Okay. Still some of that soppiness from before, which was excellent, in Crowley’s mind. Peachy. Spiffing. Corking.

_If it is your intention to go back to sleep, I have no wish to impede you from doing as you like. We are in lockdown again, after all, it would hardly be seemly to make a show of visitation in such times._

Crowley’s jaw clenched. He almost threw the letter out in a wash of consternation, but kept reading.

_That said, I’m sure I should be quite powerless to thwart any wile you have that happens to bring you near to my doorstep._

Crowley massaged the bridge of his nose, groaning. So close. So very, very close. But it still wasn’t really what Crowley was looking for.

_Cautiously yours, Aziraphale._

Okay. That was a thing.

Crowley pondered next steps. Then he sighed, and fetched his writing set again.

_Angel,_

_Far be it from me to intrude and ruin your reputation with my visitations._

_Love, Crowley_

There, that would do it. He sent it on, then continued with the organizing.

Less than an hour later, another letter, this time materializing directly into his hand, and the wax still soft. Crowley pried it open.

_Crowley,_

_I’m certain my reputation can survive the battering, but it would be the height of impropriety to encourage such commingling among our more vulnerable neighbors. Though there are other ways the humans have devised to keep in touch with each other during these times, there are ways singular to you and I that may circumvent the need to make any show at all to prying eyes._

Crowley held his useless, bated breath.

_But I’m sure I couldn’t possibly impose on you._

Wait.

_I apologize for anything I may have written that implied I would be less than satisfied with whatever method of company you are willing to bestow on me._

Hang on.

_Your friend, Aziraphale._

Crowley was writing before he was even conscious of summoning his materials back into his hands.

_Bless it, Aziraphale, you have to ask. Of course I miss you, of course I think it’s ridiculous for you and me to isolate from each other when we can’t even get sick, but if you don’t ask, I won’t come. I’ll give you anything you want, anything you ask for, but angel mine, in this new world, I’m done with trying to talk you into something you already want to do. You have to ask._

Crowley read this over, then incinerated the paper in his hand. Too blunt. Gently, gently. Aziraphale had never had the freedom to ask for his own wants before.

_Aziraphale,_

_Anything you want that’s in my power to give is yours. You only have to ask._

_Crowley._

There. Better.

Crowley made it all the way through his CDs and was working on his VHS tapes when the reply came, just a scrap of torn-off paper, and written in a shaking hand Crowley had never seen Aziraphale employ before:

_Please_

The tape Crowley had been holding clattered to the floor as the hand holding it vanished, whisked away on an atomic level some fifteen minutes away, to find better employment: holding the soft, trembling form of an angel, wiping away the overwhelmed tears, and pressing as close as could be to every giving inch it could, while it celebrated with its demon important first steps.

Perhaps later it would be Crowley’s pleasure to receive love letters with the title in the body of the work, but hearing the real thing murmured into his ear instead was certainly nothing to mope about. Almost as good was getting to say it back.

**Author's Note:**

> Some brief notes:  
> \- there are Pride and Prejudice references and I will not apologize for them  
> \- green sealing wax, according to my research, meant "friendly correspondence" in England and "prospective lovers" in France and I can't think of anything more perfect for these two, honestly. Also I've just been feeling green lately, just in general. It's a great color. Also also it's the sealing wax in the Good Omens: Lockdown video and since this is a direct sequel to that more than anything else, here we are.
> 
> Quillyfied on Tumblr!


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